What stirs you...

"We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do." - Herman Melville 

I came across that quote and I could immediately relate to it.  I become very irritable and discontented when I'm bored and so I began thinking of what stirs me.  On the face of it, a lot of things... work, cooking, reading, ropes.  But then as I thought about it a little more, I realized that there's a common element that's a more appropriate answer to the question of what stirs me.

Challenge.  Being challenged is what stirs me.  I can challenge myself, but what really gets me going is being challenged by others or in front of others.  I can't imagine how I didn't realize it before, but I'm definitely an exhibitionist.  Perhaps I wasn't one before, I don't know, but I am now.  

I'm a performer, a chameleon of sorts.  I'll adapt to whatever I think the audience wants.  Within reason...  I won't become someone else.  I'm not an impersonator.  I don't want to imitate someone else.  I just enjoy playing with people's preconceived notions of who I am and for that enjoyment I'll pour myself into likely and unlikely molds.  And as long as it's a challenge, I'll keep pushing myself into the boundaries of my invention for the whim of those watching. 

Sometimes the challenge is a mental one - project confidence when I feel like I am on the verge of cracking.  Talk back to my superiors, speak up with a certainty I don't feel.  Raise my voice, defend thoughts and fight for others when all I want to do is crawl under the desk and hide.  Challenge myself to say "yes, I can" even if only in a frightened whisper to myself when I want to believe that I can't.

Sometimes it's physical - let's see just how far back my arms will bend before the shoulder pops.  Pain measured in stinging blows or constriction of tightly bound limbs.  How many breaths separate the high of levitating on the brink from the moment "yellow" erupts from clenched teeth with a cry of surrender?

Sometimes, if I can focus on just one aspect of the challenge, I can exceed my own expectations.  Especially when my pride is on the line.  I don't think I've ever realized just quite how much my pride matters to me.  When it's only me, I'll fold in surrender often without even trying to fight.  But when challenged in front of others, whether I know them or not...  In a battle between common sense and pride, pride will often ride far ahead of common sense until self-preservation pulls on the reigns.  

There is something to be said for the fuzzy boundary between challenge and willful self-destruction.

Misusing the alphabet

I find writing "under the influence" to be a fascinating experience.  It's just about the only time when I can actually write without censoring myself and let everything land on paper.  The rest of the time I don't fight the impulse to self-edit and while what comes out in the end might be a fine piece, it's been chewed up so many times that it no longer bears resemblance to what I started writing.

I can write when buzzed, but the best uncensored writing comes when I'm straddling that fine line between very, very mellow and unfit to walk.  That's where I was last night with the help of two bottles of apple cider.  Since the letters on the page I was reading were blurring, I pulled out my journal and wrote the following...

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And so the story begins.
Because everything has to start somewhere even if you
Can't yet figure out where it will lead you.
Does it really matter whose fault it was?
Everyone saw the end result even if they couldn't
Figure out why the gun went off when pointed at
Georgiana's bountiful chest.
Heresy, you might say, how could you not know?
I tell you, I didn't.
Just as surprised as you, I was.
Killing isn't as common as you would think.
Lately I've been feeling jaded, I guess
Martin proved me wrong.
Never would I have expected him to be the one.
One to pull out the gun, one to have the guts to
Pull the trigger.
Quaking in his shoes would be more his style.
Really not the one to surprise anyone usually.
Saturday night he was quiet, pensive, sober almost.
Thought he was drunk, then sober, then high.
Unfortunately for Georgiana, he wasn't any of those.
Very unhappily enlightened is what he was.
We all thought he didn't know or didn't care.
"X marks the spot" is all he said before Georgiana's
Yelp pierced the mellow buzz of the bar.
Zero warning.

I never thought of myself as particularly helpless or weak-willed.  In fact, most people who know me will describe me as determined, sometimes almost to the point of single-mindedness.  Control freak has been used as a description more than once.  I like to be in control - of myself, of the situation, even of others on occasion.

I've never tried illicit drugs not out of some sort of a moral conviction, but out of sheer fear of losing control and being unable to regain it at will.

Willingly giving up control is different. I can and have done that, but finding myself without the ability to regain control is something I don't like to think about.  And so it's all the more galling that I can't seem to gain control over a habit I have.

I hate it.  I hate the sense that something is stronger than my determination.  There's no medication that can help, no X-step program, there's nothing except me and my utter inability to exercise the self-control necessary to stop doing it.

Why don't I just stop?  It's not because I can't.  I'm at least honest enough to admit that.  I don't stop because I don't have to.  I've overcome and conquered challenges before because I had to.  Because it wasn't a choice, it was a matter of survival at least on some level.  In this case, I should do it, I should kick the habit, but I don't have to.

And so I choose not to.

Books and life

I read a book today...

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I swallowed it; devouring pages, choking on the sentences, gulping air in between carefully crafted words and phrases.

It was a difficult book.  A fact that didn't escape my notice back when I first lifted it off the shelf.  The bland description on the back cover hinted, oh so beguilingly, at unseen horrors within and yet the calm and serene cover seemed to promise restitution.  Read me, it seemed to whisper, you may suffer in the process but all will be well in the end.

Seduced by the lovely prose and by the implied promise of happily ever after I picked it up and began to read.

There is no happily ever after.  Just as life tends to provide questions rather than answers, so did this book.  The horror within blossomed, dark and incomprehensible, made all the more poignantly personal by the child's name... Kate. Reading it was like walking along the precipice, knowing you're going to slip down into the yawning abyss but hoping you're wrong.  And as the book unfolded you would admit to yourself that you aren't wrong.

I'd like to say that the book was ultimately uplifting, that it brought comfort and deliverance along with its exquisite pain, but that would be inventing my own ending.

As most good books do, this one left richly painted and complex characters suffering in the wake of the last page closing.  What made it so solid and real is precisely why there could be no happy resolution, no neat tying up of loose ends, no promise of absolute answers. 

Real life carries no promises of happy resolutions to our own personal versions of hell and this book was nothing less than real in all its terrifying and inexplicable monstrosity.

A "not good" day...

This will not be a good day...

I can already feel it and it's not even 10am. My skin feels prickly with dread of a wasted heap of hours before me. I keep catching myself tightening my jaws and grinding my teeth and the fact that I keep doing it is irritating me, leading to more tightening and grinding.

My hands are shaky and want to be let loose on the keyboard but whatever I let them type today will be drivel and I hold them back, feeling prickly irritation flow from the fingertips up through the arms. My shoulders are tense and the worst part of all, the way I know for certain that this will not be a good day is that I can feel my collar.

Usually it's a comfort, a reassuring metal band locked around my neck, heavy enough to stay put, light enough to never remove. But on days like today, I can feel it tightening, pressing on my throat. It isn't, of course it isn't. It's just me, it's the tension, the straining of muscles that makes the skin hypersensitive and turns the collar from a comforting presence into a choking warning to relax.

Except that I can't relax. I don't know what's bothering me, but it's getting worse by the minute and it'll keep getting worse, crushing all my attempts at concentration on my reading or my chores or anything else I would normally be doing today. Music isn't helping, coffee isn't helping, being in a place I love is having no effect. It's the fight or flight tension except I can't pick which one I want to do. And I don't think either one will help.

This will not be a good day.

Dinner Party

Laura taps her fingers distractedly on the table and sneaks a glance at her watch. She picks up her fork and puts it back down again. Her mouth-watering plate of pasta has by now solidified into an unappetizing blob. She picks a bread roll and starts tearing it into tiny bits. She has to tell him. She was planning on telling him tonight but then Carrie called and she sounded so miserable that somehow Laura found herself inviting her along. And now, look at the three of them, sitting there in awkward silence, making strained conversation on topics none of them care much about. Killing time and, to Laura’s annoyance, killing Laura’s resolve.

Maybe I can just write it all out in a letter, she thinks in sudden inspiration. But she and Mark have never been a letter writing couple. To start now would be fake and somehow dishonest. Oh why, why did Carrie have to come along tonight?

~*~*~*~*~

Mark stabs his chicken, trying to avoid looking at his almost full plate. Somewhere between getting to the restaurant and seeing Carrie rush to their table, a halo of copper corkscrew curls framing her face, he lost his appetite. The plate of Chicken Saltimbocca is marooned before him, the formerly succulent meat congealing in a cooling puddle as his stomach gives another lurch.

Why didn’t Carrie come before he ordered dinner? The guilt of eating “flesh”, as she calls it, in front of her is making him irritable and hungry with no desire to keep eating. Why didn’t she come on time for once? He could have ordered a salad and… He feels his neck flush a dull red as he throws a nervous glance at Laura but she’s not watching him. She doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know.

~*~*~*~*~

Carrie picks delicately at her beet and arugula salad. A piece of gorgonzola cheese slips out of fork’s reach and the tines skid on a patch of oil, dislodging a leaf onto the crisp white tablecloth. She picks it up without really looking, her eyes glazed with disappointment. She was so hoping for a long chat with Laura, how stupid of her not to have listened when Laura suggested dinner together. She must have mentioned that Mark would be there. She must have. Lately she could never seem to get Laura on her own. She was busy with work or at the gym or planning outings with Mark. Carrie bites her lip, trying to stop the hot pressure behind her eyelids from resolving itself in a flood down her flushed cheeks.

She hates feeling so weak and needy, but damn it, Laura was her friend well before she even met Mark. Carrie wills the tears back and grits her teeth. Is there a way to suggest dessert but make it clear that Mark isn’t invited? She has to talk to Laura, she has to tell her what she’s decided, what she’s finally come to realize. She has to…

~*~*~*~*~

“May I take this for you, sir?” Mira is already reaching past the man’s arm to remove the barely touched food. This does not look like a successful meal and she sighs. She can already see the look of disgust and annoyance on Alberto’s face when she'll bring the plates back. Alberto hates when food makes its way back into his pristine kitchen. He always takes it as a personal affront and then takes his anger out on the hapless servers. Maybe I can sneak it past the sous chef, she thinks in sudden inspiration. Get Pietro to dump it before Alberto goes ballistic that one of his personal favorites was mangled and left to dry almost whole. Mira sighs and bites her lip. I don’t need this tonight and I bet the tips will be lousy.

“Would anyone care for some dessert?” she hazards, fairly certain of the answer but still hoping she can salvage Alberto’s mood and her tips by suggesting the chocolate soufflé.

“No,” the man is abrupt, pushing his chair back from the table and fishing in his pocket as if to pay. Mira’s face is impassive, her hand already reaching into the pocket of her black apron for the check. Definitely a lousy tip, the guy looks pissed off.

“Actually,” the red haired woman shakes back her curls and dimples up at Mira, giving her a sweetly shy smile, “Actually, I’d love some dessert.”

The other woman looks up in surprise, her fingers stilling for a moment as her eyes travel between her dining companions and up to Mira’s face. She looks lost, as if unsure of why she’s still sitting at the table.

Mira halts, glancing from one diner to another. The man is already on his feet but he’s not looking at either of the women. His face has a closed off look that Mira has long learned to recognize as that of someone who has already left the restaurant in mind if not in body.

“I’ll give you a minute?” Mira allows the end of the sentence to trail off just enough to spur a response.

“No, it’s all right,” the dark-haired woman speaks, her voice growing more assured with each word now that a decision has been reached.

She turns to address the man, “Mark, you go on home. Take the car,” she hands him the keys, pressing them into his hand when he looks like he’s about to sit back down.

“Go on, you said you had some work you wanted to catch up on. Carrie can give me a ride home later.” She looks at her friend whose face lights up as she nods.

“Just go.” Her tone is impassive and she is not looking at the man anymore. Instead, she turns to Mira and gives her a dazzling smile.

“How is your chocolate soufflé?”

Hands

Hands… Touching, caressing, gripping, pushing, hitting, pulling, soothing.

Do they ever do something on their own? Something unexpected? Something you thought they didn’t have in them? Gripping hard enough to cause pain when all you intended is a firm touch? Does it seem sometimes that anger and frustration flows directly from your heart to your hands, bypassing your brain?

Ever wonder how hands can be so expressive without your permission? Ever sit on your hands to stop them from shaking while you pretend to be brave and not care that the world is crumbling all around you? Ever reach for something even when you knew you shouldn’t? Ever force your hands to slip something into your pocket and walk away pretending it didn’t really happen?

Ever have your hands tell you something before your eyes did? Hands breaking out in cold sweat a moment before you saw the car in front of you stop suddenly as you were still reaching for the brake pedal. Did you really think the rash blossoming on the delicate inner wrist was just an allergy? Was it?

Touch… welcomed, desired, rejected, indifferent. Or lack of it. Which is more painful? My hand gripping yours; unable to hold on, unable to let go. Hugs, handshakes, waves, hands talking without ever saying a word. Can you control what your hands say or do? Would you even want to?

Unusual Pet

Not sure which blog this story belongs on... Let's see how it does here. As always, comments are welcome and appreciated.

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The play of wooden wind chimes from his dream translated into persistent knocking on the front door as Richard reluctantly opened his eyes. For a moment all was quiet and then the knocking started again, more determined than before. Grumbling, he pulled on a pair of sweats and glanced at the alarm clock. Two thirty in the morning.

“Someone better be dead, Kira,” he growled, opening the front door.

The woman on his doorstep attempted a smile but what came out was a tightly twisted grimace.

“Oh, I hope so,” was all she said, pushing past him into the house.

Before he could say anything, she turned to face him.

“The bastard had a heart attack,” she spit the words out, hands balled into fists at her sides. “He’s in intensive care and mother insists I come immediately. He couldn’t just die and get it over with, could he?”

She rubbed her arms for warmth and glared at him, “Anyway, you know how my mother gets, so I have to go…” She muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

“Kira, you could tell her, you know,” he attempted. “If she knew what he did…”

“Stop it, Rick, “ she cut him off, waving her hand, “I’m not having another one of those ‘truth is best’ conversations now. This is between me and that bastard and anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” She inhaled and continued, “I need a favor…”

In spite of himself, Richard grinned. Kira’s fiery nature was one of the reasons he fell in love with her even when she told him straight out that he had the wrong plumbing. The two became friends and Richard ended up on the receiving end of many rants involving Kira’s father, or “the bastard” as she referred to him.

“A favor?” Richard’s grin widened, “Do ask…”

Kira set her jaw and glared at him, “I hate asking.”

“Yes, I know.”

Kira turned and prowled around the living room, picking things up and putting them back down. Finally, she stalked back to where Richard was leaning against the wall.

“I have…” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “a pet that needs looking after. I’ll only be gone for a couple of days, three max, but I can’t leave Sephi alone. I need someone to stay at my place during the day and look after her.”

Richard raised an eyebrow, but Kira continued, “You can write from anywhere, right? I have WiFi, food, coffee… You can bring your laptop and you can even sleep there if you want. God knows it’s warmer than this icebox you call home.” She shivered, waiting for his reply.

Richard frowned, “No offense, K, but does your kitty need a constant companion? Can’t I just drop in during the day and feed it or change the litter?”

For the first time that night, Kira’s expression cleared and she gave him a dazzling smile, “I didn’t say Sephi was a cat… Look,” she added before he could interrupt. “Just promise me you’ll do it and I’ll leave you to get back to sleep.”

He opened his mouth to protest but Kira had already seen the agreement in his eyes.

“Great,” she leaned in to give him a quick hug. “Feeding and care instructions are on the kitchen table. I’ll give you a call tonight to see how you’re getting on. Thanks!” and with that she was out the door, leaving him holding a key to her loft.

Driving to Kira’s loft the next morning he tried to recall any previous mention of a pet but came up with nothing. Shrugging, he concentrated instead on the problem with his current freelance assignment.

Still deep in thought, he opened the door and heard rather than felt his breath leaving in a hiss. Folders and papers slowly tumbled from his nerveless fingers as he contemplated the incomprehensible image before him.

In the middle of a sparsely furnished living room, on a soft Persian rug, stood a giant folding dog cage. Its occupant appeared to be asleep on a dark mauve cushion. As he cautiously approached the cage, the oak planks creaked and he stopped. The naked girl in the cage lifted her head and tilting it to the side, regarded him. Arching her back, she stretched gracefully and sat up. The tight black leather collar gleamed darkly against the pale skin. The name tag read Sephi.

“Uhhhm…” he swallowed, “Uhhm, I’m Rick. I…”

“Meow,” said Sephi.

No name

Blue eyes, caramel blond hair, heart shaped face. Bored expression of a seven year old playing reluctant witness to adult conversation she doesn't understand. Unwilling to stay, unable to leave. Too old to play in the kids' corner of the quiet cafe, too young to be allowed to wander off on her own. Harassed mother on one side, sleeping baby brother on the other, pile of papers on the table, and across it a pair of strangers talking about boring things like mortgage and inspection. This isn't how she pictured a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Sunlight filters through the window and she shifts on the padded bench, watching as the sparkly sequins on her jeans catch the light and wink at her. The strangers across the table ignore her, intent on the papers and her mother's droning voice. She's not used to being ignored, although with Billy's birth it's been happening more often. She sighs and twirls the tiny silver heart charm on her bracelet. She reaches for a pen lying forgotten on the table, but her mothers snatches it back, glaring at her and simultaneously smiling at the other couple.

She shifts again, trying to get comfortable and bumps the table, earning another glare. Now the other woman looks at her and gives her a bright fake smile.

"Are you bored, honey?"

She scowls back and mumbles, "No." The mother sighs, a familiar sound of frustration.

"Why don't you go play in the kids' corner? We'll be done here soon."

She looks at her mother, incredulous. The kids' corner is for little kids. She doesn't want to play there. Tears of frustration and anger well up and she's about to protest when she realizes that the door is right next to the toybox. Sliding out from behind the table, she wanders over to the toys and glances back. Her mother is pulling Billy's carrier closer, obliterating the space where she sat just a moment ago and is already back deep in conversation.

She pauses then slowly pushes open the door and steps outside. Through the glass door she can see her mother and the other couple. Her mother is talking and smiling, not looking at her, unaware she's no longer there.

She sits down on the steps outside, warmth of early spring sun making up for the chill of the breeze. Shivering, she hugs her knees and watches as the cars pass by. Some pull into the supermarket lot next door, others just head past. Across the street, on the soccer field an impromptu game is in full swing. She watches, twirling a strand of caramel blond hair.

A car pulls to a stop and the passenger side window slowly rolls down. A little pug pokes its head out, sneezing and she laughs, delighted.

"Hey, you look bored." The driver leans across the passenger seat and smiles at her. "I'm going to the park," he gestures up the hill toward the park with her favorite playground. "Wanna come along? You can play with Lucy here. She loves kids."

She hesitates for a moment and the little dog gives an encouraging bark, wagging its tail. She looks back at the cafe. Her mother is gesticulating with her hands, her face animated and as the girl watches, the mother throws back her head and laughs.

"Ok," she's already pulling open the car door even as the word falls from her lips. The door slams, the window rolls back up and the car pulls away.

The mother looks up, "Becky?"

Birthday wishes

Birthdays come with obligatory good wishes...

Putting aside the truly memorable birthday card from J which had me in tears, the rest were of the more expected variety. Among the most often repeated ones were wishes of everything I would wish for myself, wishes of happiness and health, long life, peace of mind, etc.

I tend not to dwell on these things; people wish others what they wish for themselves, but the many wishes of happiness got me thinking of what happiness for me would be. I used to think of happiness as a goal - something to strive for and, no pun intended, be happy once you've attained it.

I look at myself in the mirror and I'm not the person I used to be but I'm also not the person I want to be. I don't think I'll ever get there. No, I'm not being a pessimist or even a perfectionist. Perhaps a better way of putting it is that I don't ever want to get to the point of where I am exactly who I want to be.

I've gotten what I thought would make me happy before and those of you who know me will remember just how badly that went. I'm just not someone who can be happy without constantly being challenged and striving for something more. Stability and a "settled" life just aren't going to happen. My definition of happiness may be unconventional, but conforming to other people's definitions hasn't gone so well for me.

So to all the well-wishers out there... In this new life I'm crafting now, my fondest wish for myself is that I never run out of walls to scale and dragons to slay.